


This Tornado Loves You

by SunsetSarsaparillaQuantum



Series: Fig Burns: Sole Survivor? [2]
Category: Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Kiss Kiss Fall in Love, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary parent, Other, Romance, gender-neutral romance, kissing and stuff, romancio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetSarsaparillaQuantum/pseuds/SunsetSarsaparillaQuantum
Summary: The kids are out of the house. Fig made dinner. The bighorners haven't escaped in 12 whole hours. Fig and Mac are going to have a nice, quiet night at home during the biggest rainstorm of the decade.
Relationships: Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor
Series: Fig Burns: Sole Survivor? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092464
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	This Tornado Loves You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bubonic_Johnson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bubonic_Johnson/gifts).



> Don't look at me! This is a gift for my pal Bubonic Johnson. Don't look at them either!

Sunshine has been antsy all morning and it's driving Fig crazy. They know their kid wants to sprint out the door with the dog and go wandering around in the hills surrounding the house. They know Sunshine has been looking for any excuse to bound out into the scrub brush surrounding the barn and search for treasure, small lizards, caps, old shell casings.

They did their chores as if Fig had been holding a gun to their head and now, they're standing at the screen door and watching huge thunderheads gathering on the hills in the distance. The clouds are growing taller and darker, but in the Goodsprings valley, it's still sunny and warm. Fig has been preparing dinner after taking care of the bighorners and making sure Sunshine has done at least some of their assignments for class. 

“The storm is gonna be fuckin' gigantic.” Sunshine's voice is excited, bright and nervous. Fig wipes their hands on a towel, pointing toward their teenager.

“Language.”

“ _God_ , you sound like Pop. Dunk isn't even in the house. He's out with Mrs. Herrera picking nopales.” Sunshine wipes their glasses on their shirt, their eyes rolling dramatically.

“I'll get the iodine.” Fig sighs, coming around the butcher block and peering out through the dirty screen.

The ground slopes gently from their front steps, down to the bighorner field, and past that, the trading post. It's successful, the traffic from Vegas, from the California side. They are secure in their standing in Goodsprings. It chafes at Sunshine, Fig knows. They want to run through the flats at top speed, taking in big breaths of air and feeling nothing weighing them down. The responsibility of going to school, working in the trading post, watching their brother... They want to do more.

“ _Baba_.”

Sunshine turns toward their parent and takes Fig's hand. This sends up Fig's 'You are being conned' radar and they look toward their child. They could be twins, Sunshine's sweet upturned nose and wide, easily smiling mouth. They wear their hair longer, slicked back, and have thick glasses, where Fig's head is shaved and their eyes are weak, but due to vanity, have not been fitted for glasses. They're both freckled. They both have sunburned skin and rough hands. Sunshine is perpetually bandaged from grabbing critters out in the wash behind the house. Fig holds their hand fondly, knowing if their friends come around, Sunshine will bolt like Fig is made of slime. It doesn't hurt their feelings. They sort of remember being a teenager. They remember acute, painful, and chronic embarrassment. 

“Baba, I'd like your permission to go to Primm with my friends to stay the night.”

“No.”

“Baba, you didn't let me explain!”

“You're going off with Radar and Queenie and Sloane. You all are gonna go looking around in caves and get attacked by creatures or shot by Fiends or worse!”

“We're going with Sunny Smiles. She has to go visit the Mojave Express office and offered to chaperone us.” Sunshine's eyes are big and pleading behind their glasses and Fig sighs, leaning against the door frame.

“You're gonna go gamble?”

“Maybe a little. It's.. It's just... We want to go see some other stuff... I'm almost eighteen. I want to go out without you and Pop or Dunk. Not that I don't--”

Fig cuts them off, gently putting their hand over Sunshine's mouth.

“I get it. I know. Okay... Fine. When is this blessed event?”

“So, the thing is...” Sunshine looks guiltily down the slope, and Fig spies three teenagers trooping up toward the house. They can see Sunny Smiles at the very bottom of the hill by the gate.

“Oh Christ, kiddo! It's tonight? You're really cutting it close. Fine. Fine. You need caps?”

“Nah, I got 'em already from Pop.” Sunshine presses a kiss to Fig's cheek and grabs their pack from the ground, slinging it onto a shoulder.

“Tell Dunk I'll bring him back something!” Sunshine bounds out the door, letting the thing slam shut behind them as they rush to meet their friends.

Fig watches them go, a quartet of raised voices and laughter. They bite back a smile.

* * *

Fig makes their way down the hill with a first aid kit tucked under one arm. They push the gate open with a jingle of the heavy bells tied there to alert them to visitors. The actual trading post is a small wooden building attached to a larger store house. The floor is clean, swept daily and painted a fresh sage green, Fig's idea. They outfitted the place with retrofitted neon and the traditional gas lamps everyone seems to have. It has a real nice, homey feel. It has everything a traveler could ask for, as well as a small bunk area for people who overestimated their ability to reach a real hotel.

Mac is lounging at the counter, reading a book. His chin is resting on his hand, dark hair falling forward as he turns page after page. He's going gray. Fig hasn't told him, they can see the whispers of gray amongst the brown. Fig watches him from the door, grinning a little before they knock on the door frame and he lifts his head.

“Hey.” Mac's face brightens and he smiles, watching Fig wander casually into the store they run together. Fig trails a hand down a shelf, picking up a bag of gum drops.

“Do you recommend these for oh.. an aging mercenary?” Fig asks, casually gesturing toward their partner with the bag.

“ _Those_? Not those, they're more for uh, people who leave the gate unlocked and let the bighorners out first thing.” Mac closes his book, crossing his arms and leaning on his elbows on the glass top. Fig's laughter cuts through the room and they toss the bag back onto the shelf.

“Did I do that this morning?”

“And yesterday too. I'm gonna start sending Doc Mitchell an apology in advance. He keeps finding them in his flowerbeds.” Mac watches his partner wander down another aisle, looking at the neatly folded clothes they have on offer.

“Oh, when did we get this?” Fig asks, holding up a soft gold bundle, a slightly damaged dress.

“One of those groups couple of days ago. They brought in their Vegas spoils and sold off all the clothes. I thought someone might like it.”

Fig feels the fabric for a moment more before sliding it from the shelf and shaking it out. It's tea length, gold and soft with a ratty hem and, Fig realizes, pockets. They shake the full skirt a little and examine it. Mac watches from the counter with raised brows. Fig's clothes range from overalls to pajamas to a buff wool coat Preston gave them before moving west... He's never seen them in a skirt. Fig looks at it for a longer moment before holding it up in front of themselves.

"Be my mirror. What does this look like?" Fig asks, coming to the end of the counter and standing with the dress tucked under their chin. Mac leans over, his hands clenched slightly around the edge of the glass top.

"I.. I mean. With _those_ shoes?" He's smiling. 

Fig lets out a snort and tosses the dress over the end of the counter, laying the first aid kit on top. Fig slips their arms around Mac's waist and hooks their pointed chin into his shoulder, jabbing him.

“Ow.” He rests his hands on their arms, squeezing. 

“Sunshine is off to Primm with their friends.”

“Oh, that's nice.” He sounds far too casual and Fig gently digs their fingers into his armpit. Mac yelps and swats their hands away.

“They said you gave them cash already.”

“I didn't want them to go out broke!” Mac twists on his stool and puts both hands on Fig's hips, squeezing lightly. Fig rolls their eyes. They put their hands on Mac's shoulders and lightly presses their fingers into his tensed muscles.

“You should have told me you already let them go.”

“I figured they'd sneak out if we told them no... Thought I'd just get out in front of it.” Mac looks up at his partner, admiring Fig's scar, their freckled cheeks, their dark eyes. Mac feels his heart thud against his ribs and he leans up, pressing a kiss to Fig's jaw.

“Why'd you bring a first aid kit?” Mac asks, grinning at the way Fig closes their eyes and offers him their neck to kiss.

“Duncan is helping Mrs. Herrera with the nopales. He's gonna come back covered in cactus spines.” They murmur, feeling their face flush as Mac tugs them closer and gently bites the side of their neck.

“He might be fine. He's getting good with a knife.” Mac's voice is muffled against Fig's neck. They shiver.

“He's eleven. Should eleven year olds be good with knives?” Fig shivers again, letting out a surprised little gasp as Mac sucks, just under their jaw. A tender spot. Fig sighs softly. 

“ _POP_.”

The voice is raised and far off. Duncan sounds, not in mortal peril, but uncomfortable. Fig pulls out of Mac's arms to their husband's distress, and they grab the first aid kit.

“I'm gonna wrap him in cotton wool. He's going to be a fully padded child. I'm gonna put him in a bubble. Safety goggles, cotton wool, a helmet.” Fig mutters. Mac follows, locking the store up and walking with Fig toward the cactus garden behind Mrs. Herrera's house.

“Baba, Pop!”

Duncan is sitting on a barrel, holding his knife between his knees. He has cactus spines, for sure, sticking out of his palm. He doesn't look too bad off, but Fig notices he's barefoot again and Mrs. Herrera is coming out of her house carrying a couple pairs of tweezers. She is an older ghoul woman with a kind face and a pearl handled six-shooter. She runs a small cafe off of Goodsprings main drag, a place that sells mostly vegetarian fare. She is, unlikely as it ever is, Duncan's best friend and favorite person to spend time with.

“Devils Thorns AGAIN?” Mac groans. Duncan looks up at him with a pathetic frown. Mac grabs the knife from him, folding the blade into the handle and tucking it into Duncan's shirt pocket.

“I don't like wearin' shoes, Pop. I cain't feel the dirt if I wear my shoes.”

“If you wear shoes, you don't get bitten by fire ants or step on the thorns.” Fig arches a brow and crouches down to look at Duncan's feet. They're rough, like little hooves. He rarely wears shoes at the house, but not wearing them around the cacti is a silly idea even for him.

“Oh kiddo.” Fig mutters.

“He really went in on them this time. He was doing so good with the knife, but he stepped on one thorn and tried to catch himself...” Mrs. Herrera's voice is rough and uneven, somewhat obscured by the laugh she is holding back. Mrs. Herrera offers Fig a pair of tweezers and goes to work on Duncan's hand.

“Pop, you see all the ones we got?” Duncan gestures to the bucket with the freshly harvested nopalitos stacked high.

“It's a good haul, kid.” Mac looks worried. He always looks worried about Duncan, but the kid is smiling at him, despite the pain in his hand, pain in his feet. Mac reaches out and gently pets Duncan's dark hair, feeling how dusty it is.

“You ever hear of a bath, Duncan?” Mac asks, shaping Duncan's hair into a filthy pompadour.

“Aw, jeez.” Duncan giggles, sucking in a deep gasp as Mrs. Herrera pulls an especially long spine from his palm. Fig finishes with his feet, tossing the hard little thorns into the compost heap, and uncaps the bottle of rubbing alcohol.

“You ready, Dunkie?” Fig asks, looking up at the kid. He nods, clenching his jaw as Fig gently swabs a cotton pad over his foot. He hisses with pain and tries to wriggle away, but Mac and Mrs. Herrera are holding him tight.

Fig bandages his foot and sends Mac to find his shoes while they go to work bandaging his hand.

“Baba, can I sleep here tonight?” Duncan asks as Mac returns with Duncan's worn out leather boots.

Fig looks to Mrs. Herrera, who is smiling.

“I offered him my spare room if he wanted to learn how to make tamales. We're going to make salsa with the nopalitos.” She looks to Duncan with a fond smile and Duncan smiles right back, kicking his legs a little.

“And! And! Prickly pear jam!” Duncan beams. Figures, the things he is most excited for is food. But Mrs. Herrera seems excited to have him over.

“If Mrs. Herrera is fine with it, I don't see why not.” Mac pulls a bandanna out of his jacket pocket, gently wiping old tear streaks from Duncan's cheeks and giving him a grin.

“Thanks, Pop!” Duncan hops off of the barrel and lands with a soft yelp, having already forgotten about his injured foot.

“You gotta be more careful, Duncan. You're the only one of you we have.” Fig reaches out, catching him in a hug and pressing little kisses to his forehead.

“Thanks, Baba.” Duncan squirms out of their arms and gives their dad a high five before darting off toward Mrs. Herrera's house with a loud WHOOP.

“Uh, please let us know if we need to come get him.” Mac gives her a little smile, but she shoos him toward the gate.

“I raised four of my own! Go make sure your bighorners aren't on their way down to eat my plants.” Her voice is kind, but Fig knows it's happened more times than they'd like to admit.

* * *

The two of them make their way back up toward the trading post, quiet for a moment. Mac has his hand on the small of Fig's back and Fig is leaning into his touch with a fond smile.

The thunder in the distance isn't a surprise and Fig can smell rain, even far off.

They pause in front of the store, looking down the hill toward Primm and seeing a huge column of rain pissing down in the distance. It looks enormous, the storm. It collects clouds, growing taller and taller and the sky around, dark and heavy. The storms in Boston had never looked like that, had never looked like the actual hand of God coming down to specifically punish one county for their hubris. Fig leans against Mac for a moment as they watch the weather expand, the storm growing and rolling toward them.

“Close the shop early tonight.” Fig says, looping their fingers in the collar of Mac's jacket.

“Oh? You got big plans?” Mac is casual as he slips his hand into the back pocket of Fig's overalls.

“Yeah, I've got the bathroom free for the first time in seven years. I'm gonna take a bath.”

“That's all?” Mac is grinning, watching Fig fidget against his side, but they break away, pointing at their husband.

“If I make dinner, you're doing the dishes. Deal?” Fig pushes the gate open, the bells ringing merrily.

“Deal.” Mac grins, watching them go.

* * *

By the time Mac deals with Chet, whining about Mac closing early, Trudy showing up to pick up her special order romance novels, and Duncan and Mrs. Herrera arriving to drop off a few of the cleaned nopalitos, the storm has arrived.

The rain is heavy and unforgiving. It pours down, bucketing around him in sheets as he runs for the house. He checks both sets of gates, making sure the animals are penned up, but they don't seem too interested in escaping in the downpour.

Mac is soaked to the bone by the time he makes it up onto the porch and into the house. The house is theirs, his and Fig's, so the décor is... eclectic. They have a low red sofa, a green dining table, mismatched chairs. A bookcase stacked top to bottom. Their bathroom is just under the stairs, bedroom beyond that. At the top of the stairs, the kids have an attic room crammed with odds and ends, furniture, art supplies, and usually, RJ the nightstalker.

RJ is sound asleep on the couch when Mac stumbles in. He doesn't even lift his head, but does continue snoring.

The table is set for supper with two places, and candles. _Candles_! Mac shrugs his coat off and grabs a hand towel to dry his hair, but the bathroom door pops open and Fig wanders out. And Mac forgets what his plan was.

They're wrapped in a towel, skin flushed pink. They are applying cream to a sunburn on their shoulder, slapping halfheartedly at the back of their neck, but they turn toward Mac with a bright smile.

“You go swimming?” Fig asks, wandering toward him with a little laugh.

“The storm is something.” Mac watches a water droplet roll down Fig's neck and disappear below the towel.

“You're dripping.” Fig turns to grab Mac's towel from the bathroom, but he catches their wrist and tugs them toward him, around a small pile of Duncan's dinosaur toys.

“Ah, no! You're all muddy.” Fig whines, Mac's arm already winding around their waist and drawing them close.

“Mac...” Fig sighs, resting their hands on his shoulder as he slowly begins to sway them in a little circle.

“Aren't you the one always trying to get me to dance with you?” Mac asks, guiding them back toward the ancient radio on the sideboard. He clicks it on with a low fuzz of static and then, Mr. New Vegas' voice gliding out into the room as the storm picks up outside.

“--Somebody is me, I love you.” His voice is a warm hug and Fig grins, letting their head drop down onto Mac's wet shoulder.

“You're cold.” Fig murmurs, swaying in Mac's arms. The music is quiet and familiar, Blue Moon, but it is competing with the thunder and Mac's boots on the floor.

“You could warm me up.” Mac offers, earning a soft laugh from his partner.

“Eww..”

“Eww? You married me!” Mac gasps, trailing his fingers down Fig's back, feeling an old scar, but mostly soft skin, warmed by Fig's bath.

“Warm you up,” Fig repeats, rolling their eyes and lifting their head to look down at Mac's wet jacket, his jeans and boots, “Go change. I'm gonna check on dinner. And then we can eat... I'll even _share_ a whole beer with you.

“Ooh, fancy.” Mac is smiling when he kisses Fig. Fig is smiling too.

* * *

Fig checks the stove, a big pot bubbling away, some kind of stew working. They turn the heat down and put the lid back on. It's enough for an army, but they always cook too much, a teenager, Mac, Duncan in the house. They inhale anything not nailed down. Thunder crashes outside and the lights flicker slightly, but their generator holds strong, chugging away.

Fig bounds back to the bedroom, tossing their towel on the bed. Mac is just as naked as they are and they stand, side by side, rooting through their shared dresser in search of dry clothes.

They exchange t-shirts, but before Fig can pull the soft fabric over their head, Mac is gently kissing the side of their neck. Fig wants to laugh, the light pressure on their skin making them snort a little, but Mac's hands have found their hips and are guiding them back toward their lumpy mattress.

“Mac..” Fig breathes. They tumble down onto the mattress and sit up on their elbows, looking fondly at him.

“What?” He sounds innocent, leaning over them and pressing his knee between their legs. The mattress dips toward him and Fig slips an arm up around his neck.

“What about dinner?” Fig's voice is vague and soft, dark eyes lazy, skating over his sharp nose and stubbled jaw.

Fig leans up, kissing him with a soft sigh. They thread their fingers through his hair and tug, earning a low grunt from the man. He shifts, his rough fingers trailing from Fig's hip, over the slight swell of their belly, and higher. Over their flat chest, nipples pebbled in the cool room. Fig shifts, squirming slightly, trying to stay on the mattress, but clinging to Mac's cool shoulders.

The storm lashes their dirty windows with rain. It pours down around them, their house safe and quiet.

"I brought you something." Mac's voice is low, ghosting across Fig's neck as he breathes against their skin.

“Present...?” Fig gasps, their noise not muffled. When they fool around, they usually have to be incredibly quiet, or sneak around like teenagers. They're alone. It's just them. Mac sucks the side of Fig's neck, biting gently around the flushed skin. Fig moans, pressing their cheek to the soft blanket beneath their head.

“Fuck..” Fig squirms again, feeling like they're going to slip off the edge of the bed. Mac is laughing, pressing his face to Fig's neck and snorting softly.

“ _Robert_.” Fig pulls on his hair, earning a low groan from him, “I'm gonna fall off the bed.” They mutter, squirming away from him to lay fully in the middle of the mattress. He doesn't move toward them right away, but takes in the view, his hand pressed over his heart.

Fig is pale in a way that isn't great in the desert. They have an aggressive farmers tan, pale upper arms, very tanned forearms. Their neck is flushed, but also sunburned. And they are scarred from head to toe, little nicks here and there, bigger ones on their arms and legs and a really gnarly, scary scar along their lower abdomen. Their tattoos, all black spirals and careful line designs, they stand out stark on their skin. Their natural hair (when they have it) is pretty dark, so the hair under their pits, between their legs and on their shins is soft and black. Mac reaches out, stroking his hand down Fig's shin.

Fig shifts, feeling his eyes on them.

“You want me to hum some music? Sing a little song?” They look up at him with a fondness, and they sit up on their elbows, taking him in.

He's better about staying out of the sun, wearing a hat with a brim. He is just as scarred, just as rough, but he has no tattoos, his skin free of ink, of brands. Fig admires the softness about his belly, his thighs. He used to be so thin, his knees and elbows would hurt. Who knew eating three square meals a day and sleeping like a person would let him fill out, as if he were happy.

Mac turns, grabbing a small bundle off the chair. It had been in his coat pocket, but it's still dry enough. The dress from earlier. He shakes it out and holds it up beside him like a flag. Like he's surrendering. Fig sits up on their elbows, eyeing the dress for a long moment. 

"You want me to wear that?" Fig asks softly, staring at him with unreadable dark eyes. His stomach clenches and he wonders if he's miscalculated, if this is something that will piss them off. 

"Only if you want to wear it... You seemed.. I mean, you seemed like you liked it. Earlier." He swallows. He can hear the swallow in the quiet room, a gap in the storm. Fig slowly sits all the way up and reaches out, feeling the soft, shushy fabric of the skirt. They stand then, sliding their arms under the skirt and slithering into the thing. It's soft against their skin. They push their arms through and out the top, tugging the fabric down. It's a halter thing. Something Fig avoided as a kid, the neck high and uncomfortable. But they stand in their bedroom, the soft gold fabric brushing their shins. They look to Mac with a shrug and then turn their attention to the cracked mirror over their dresser.

The person looking back at them... They don't know them. They're a gawky thing with no hair and a bad sunburn. The dress feels weird and wrong against their skin. They blush, not from excitement but shame. The dress, a mistake. 

Mac knows this instantly and reaches for it, pulling the thing off of Fig and holding it up. It's inside out now, lumpy against his palm. How to fix the mistake, the misstep? It's their only night alone for a while. He doesn't want Fig to spend it unhappy. So he does the only thing that comes to his mind.

He puts the dress on. 

He stands in front of Fig, the dress slipped on even with his slightly broader shoulders, even with his inch or so in height he has on Fig. The gold looks nice on him. It makes his eyes go blue-blue and his hair is honeyed in the low light. Fig breathes out in a little sigh and sits down suddenly. He looks _nice_. 

"Wow." They breathe, looking up at him and slowly inching back, giving him a once over. Mac does a little turn, showing off the whole thing. He feels like he should feel... embarrassed. Something in him wants to be ashamed of dressing like a girl. But the fabric feels good against his skin and the way Fig is looking at him makes him feel a little dizzy. He leans across the space between them and presses a gentle kiss on Fig's mouth. Fig kisses him back with a soft sigh and scoots back, flopping down in the space they had vacated.

"I feel real cute." Mac murmurs, brushing his hands down the full skirt, touching the fabric happily. 

“Mac.” Fig smiles, tipping their head to the side and looking up at him. MacCready wastes no time with a look like that. He crawls over the mattress, sitting, settling fully, on Fig's lap. It makes them laugh every time, the sniper easily sitting on them. Fig reaches up, linking hands with him and feeling his warm thighs pressing to either side of Fig's hips. They are swimming in soft, gold chiffon. It looks like a cloud, floating around their scarred bodies. 

Mac presses Fig's hands down into the blanket and he leans over them, kissing slowly down the side of their neck. He takes his time, gently biting, sucking, until Fig is shivering and their feet are pressed into the blankets, squirming and moving restlessly. The dress crinkles and Mac has to brush the skirt down or to the side to access more of Fig's skin. 

“M..Mm..ac..” Fig gasps louder, grabbing the back of his neck as his cold hand slides over their stomach and drops lower, sliding between their legs. Fig's breath is soft, urgent gasps against his ear, but Fig is shivering. They push him gently off of them, rolling Mac onto his back and reversing their position. Fig sits on his thighs and leans over him, kissing Mac firmly on the mouth. The dress is bunched up, hiked over his thighs and spilling around them in all it's golden glory. Their hands are tangled in his hair and he's the one gasping then. Mac's voice is muffled against their mouth, low groans escaping him as Fig kisses him until he is breathless. Fig shifts on his lap and lets their hand slip down, gently stroking their fingertips over his half hardness, the stiff thing pressing against Fig's thigh.

“This for me, Rat?” Fig whispers. He lets out a high, wobbling moan and sort of thrusts against their fingers.

“You're so easy.” Fig murmurs, kissing him again. One hand in his hair, the other hand wraps around him and squeezes. Mac cries out again, gasping and whispering.

“Hmm?” Fig bites the side of his neck. Mac arches off of the bed, his hand grasping Fig's thigh and squeezing.

“F..Fig..” Mac moans, his eyes fluttering slightly as Fig's hand slides down his length and back up again. They spit on their hand and move back, stroking him gently. His breath is coming in short gasps and he keeps grabbing Fig's thighs, their hips, trying to anchor himself.

“F-Fuck!” Mac's voice is raised. He is competing with the radio in the other room, the rain, the rustle of the dress, his own breath. His hips hitch up off of the blankets and he lets out a wobbling, gasping plea, wordless and high as he comes.

Fig stares down between them, watching as he lashes his own skin with slick heat. Mac falls back, gasping harshly and slowly releasing his hold on Fig's thighs.

“Wow.” Fig murmurs, resting their chin on their clean hand, elbow jabbing Mac in the tit. The gold still.. It looks great on him. His cheeks flushed, eyes closed tight. 

“Ouch.” Mac's voice is hazy and low, his hand stroking slowly up over Fig's thigh.

“You're almost too easy. I just pull your hair—” Mac cut them off with a soft kiss, touching Fig's cheek with one hand, his other hand sliding between them. Fig's breath catches in their chest and they arch slightly, pressing their face into Mac's chest.

“O-Oh..” Fig squirms, gasping as Mac's hand moves slightly.

“What were you saying?” Mac whispers, rubbing his fingers up, carefully angling his wrist. Fig's hands clench firmly around his shoulders and their hips twitch, inching forward, up and down as Mac's hand moves.

Fig's breath comes in harsh gasps and they cry out, their climax a surprise. They tremble, shivering, before falling forward, burying their face against Mac's shoulder.

* * *

The duo is quiet for a moment, listening to the storm raging outside. Fig rubs their cheek against Mac's shoulder, eyes closed.

“Are we gonna keep this dress?” Fig mutters, curling their hand around Mac's shoulder. The fabric is spread around them and Fig can't stop gently petting it. 

“I don't think anyone else will want it after tonight.” Mac murmurs, kissing Fig's neck. His stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the storm and Fig looks down at it with an amused smile. And then they pause.

“Oh shit! The stew!” Fig lurches off of the bed, rushing, naked, through the house to turn the heat off. Mac finds their towel, wiping his belly off and follows Fig into the kitchen, tossing it to them. 

“Oh, did I fuck it up..?” Fig whispers, peering into the pot, stirring it carefully.

“It smells fine.” Mac pulls a beer from the icebox and cracks it open on the edge of the counter. He's still in the dress. It feels very casual, comfortable. He tucks a hand into the pocket, sips his beer. 

The thunder booms, the actual house shaking. Fig grabs the edge of the counter and looks around, tensed.

Another boom. And the power goes out. The radio dies, the lights gone. The only light is coming from the candles on the table.

“Well.. Shit.” Fig sighs.

* * *

Dinner is eaten, by candlelight. They change into their pajamas. They debate checking on Duncan, but one look down the hill shows that most homes in the valley still have power. They rock-paper-scissors for who will check the generator before bed, but Mac grabs his coat before Fig even throws out paper (they always choose paper first). They put the food away, keeping the ice box closed for as long as they can, and blow out one candle. They take the other with them into the bedroom to fix the blankets and sheets.

The dress is hung on the back of their bedroom door, glimmering quietly to itself.

Mac throws his wet jacket and boots off by the door and joins Fig in the bedroom. He tumbles into bed, dragging Fig in beside him and pinning them down to kiss, gently smothering them under all seven of their blankets.

“Heyyyy.” Fig whines, kissing him back, but struggling to sit up and blow out the candle.

The room, plunged into darkness, is still filled with the sounds of the storm. Fig, content to be the little spoon, snuggles back against Mac's chest.

“The generator is blown?”

“Yeah. Stupid thing. Tree branch crashed through it. Or maybe a fence post. I couldn't really see. I'll check it in the morning.” He says that all into the nape of Fig's neck, stroking his hands gently over their stomach under the covers.

“Mac..” Fig squirms slightly, rolling to face him in the half light.

“Yeah, boss?” Mac yawns, stretching his arm out for Fig to rest their face against.

“You got any plans for the rest of your life?” Fig is smiling, he can see the curve of their mouth in the dark.

“Nah. Just... hanging around here. Doing whatever you tell me.” Mac is laughing. Fig leans forward and catches him in a kiss. He kisses them back, his hand gently traveling down the curve of their back.

“You're so easy.” Fig whispers, linking hands with him and settling down.

The next morning they'll have to fix the generator and pick up Duncan from his sleepover. They'll have to get the bighorners out of Doc's flowerbeds. They'll have to take the dog out and any number of little chores and worry about Sunny at the casino.

But right then, they're alone in the dark, listening to the storm. And everything is perfect.


End file.
